


(I won't be silent) I Won't Let Go

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hermione works hard, Lawyer Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29080137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Ron had a lot of patience for a lot of things. He dealt with Robards’s stunning charms, listened to Percy be an ass about his job at Gringotts and calmly waited out an elaborate chess strategy without breaking a sweat. It took a lot to tear through his carefully constructed composure.One thing he couldn’t stand watching for as much as a second, was Hermione breaking down.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Kudos: 1
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	(I won't be silent) I Won't Let Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hmweasley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hmweasley/gifts).



> Title taken from the song "Afterglow" by Ed Sheeran.

Ron has never found it hard to knock on the door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. In fact, he usually didn’t bother knocking when he could directly floo in.

He could have flooed that time, too, but it didn’t seem right at all. This wasn’t a normal Friday morning, and he refused to pretend that it was.

Harry opened the door looking half asleep and frazzled. He squinted at Ron.

“Is there something wrong with the floo?”

“No.”

Harry blinked.

“Then why are you making me open the door for you at six in the morning?”

Ron hesitated. He thought the fresh air would help prepare him for this moment, but it didn’t.

“Could I have a spare room for a few days?”

Harry regarded him in tense silence as Ron’s request registered with him.

“Yes, of course,” he said, voice soft. Harry opened the door slightly wider and Ron passed him without another word.

Harry looked a lot more awake as he made tea on autopilot. Ron recognised the habit as one passed on by his own mother, who believed that any hurt can be soothed by a warm cup of tea and a home-cooked meal.

Ron slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, his head falling into his hands. It grew heavier with every passing moment as the reality of the morning’s events sank in.

He’d been home late after a gruelling day of Auror training. In order to qualify for a promotion above Supervisor level, he had to master a wide range of disillusionment charms. Robards’s teaching method of choice generally involved a lot of dumping into the deep end. Ron wasn’t against the concept, but he was against being hit by at least a dozen stunners a day.

Even so, Hermione wasn’t home yet, either. Her job as Kingsley’s assistant attorney took a lot of her time. Ron didn’t mind. Hermione deserved to be as successful as she wished to be in her career, as well as every other aspect of her life.

He’d woken up when she got home just after four, close to tears and obviously exhausted.

She’d gotten into her side of the bed, pulling the covers up until it covered her face.

Ron had a lot of patience for a lot of things. He dealt with Robards’s stunning charms, listened to Percy be an ass about his job at Gringotts and calmly waited out an elaborate chess strategy without breaking a sweat. It took a lot to tear through his carefully constructed composure.

One thing he couldn’t stand watching for as much as a second, was Hermione breaking down.

He’d always known she was a lot stronger than him. She could make difficult decisions without blinking, keep her cool in the face of life-threatening danger, and somehow still look absolutely beautiful while doing it.

He just hadn’t taken into consideration how much  _ hurting  _ it took to be that strong.

“Hermione.” He spoke softly, which seemed appropriate to the situation. “How was your day?”

At first he thought she was going to ignore him, still as she was under the sheets. To his surprise, she lowered it with a huff, and he took in her bloodshot eyes with a sinking feeling in his chest.

“I’ve possibly created a new threshold to measure ‘Worst Day Ever’ against.”

Ron sat up. He reached for the wand under his pillow and flicked on the bedside lamp. He had never properly unlearned the paranoid habit, and Hermione let him be for the most part, even though he’d caught her eyeing it in distaste a few times.

“Talk to me.”

Hermione rubbed at her temples, clearly staving off a headache. The action made Ron’s heart hurt even harder, if that was in any way possible.

“No.”

“No?” Ron repeated, affronted. “What do you mean,  _ no _ ?”

“I mean that I’ve just spent the entire day in court,” Hermione levelled him with a stare, “trying to do the right thing and be  _ fair _ , only to be shut down by either the sheer incompetency of most of the people I work with, or the indifference of the Wizengamot to right and wrong. So I don’t particularly want to come home and relive the entire day again just because you’re curious.”

“I’m not curious,” Ron gritted out. “I’m worried because my wife got home at  _ four in the morning _ , crying, and refuses to tell me anything. How am I meant to help if I don’t even know who to blame?”

It was making Ron’s chest feel even tighter, the thought of being helpless in the face of Hermione’s pain, again. He knew that taking it out on Hermione was probably not doing either of them much good, but every breath was a struggle and he just needed her to tell him how to help.

Hermione sat up, too.

“There’s no one to blame, Ron. This is my job. I need to do it.”

It was always the same excuse, recently.  _ It’s my job _ and  _ everyone else fought just as hard for their position _ and  _ how am I meant to make a change if I’m easily scared off _ ? To Ron, it seemed clear that Hermione’s job was hurting her. Nothing got to hurt her anymore; that’s what he promised in their wedding vows. He’d thought it was an easy promise. Of course he’d fight anything that dared hurt her. It would hurt him just as much, and he’d die before she went through anything like Bellatrix Lestrange ever again.

He’d never considered that she would  _ choose _ the very thing that he was supposed to protect her from. He was only a wizard. He couldn’t fight both the muggle-hating Wizengamot and his wife at the same time. He didn’t want to have to fight with Hermione.

But he would, if that was what was necessary to keep her safe and happy.

“What if you don’t need to do it?”

The question left a piercing silence in its aftermath. Ron considered regretting uttering it, but he found that he really didn’t.

“What?”

Ron stood, unable to sit still with the agitation that ran through him. He paced along the edge of the bed, running his hands through his hair.

“What if it wasn’t your job anymore?”

“You want me to quit?” Hermione stood as well, stepping closer until they were nearly toe to toe. “I can’t do that, Ron.”

“Well why not?” he exclaimed. He knew his face likely showed every shred of emotion he was feeling, and he found that he didn’t care. This was  _ Hermione _ . “Why should you always be the one to carry the world on your shoulders? It isn’t fair.”

Hermione watched him carefully, reading everything he was showing her with tired eyes.

“I’m not giving up my career for you, Ron. You knew this before we got married. I don’t do well with having nothing to do.” He opened his mouth to speak but she talked over him. “I’m sorry about the late nights and that I haven’t been home as much as I used to. This won’t last forever, I just really need to get through this trial in one piece and then I swear I’ll have more energy to spare and you can have all of it.”

“It’s not about the late nights,” Ron argued, forcibly taking his turn to speak by wrapping a hand around Hermione’s wrist that had been gesticulating wildly around his head. “I don’t care if the only sleep you ever get is a fifteen-minute nap at your desk in between meetings, or if the only time we spend together is me sitting on the edge of the bathtub eating cereal while you do your makeup before work.  _ I do not care _ .”

“Then what is the problem?” she asked, relaxing in his hold. “Why do you want me to quit?”

“I don’t care if you breathe, sweat and bleed your job, as long as it makes you happy.” He met her gaze. “This clearly doesn’t.”

“Maybe not right now,” Hermione countered, “But it will make me happy if, in a few years, I take over as Kingsley’s attorney, and we manage to change a few blood status laws to make the world a better place to live in for others like me.”

Ron knew this. He knew how hard Hermione had to work to prove herself to be just as competent as the pure- or half bloods who went to school with them. She stood out because she was smart, yes, but she didn’t get where she was without putting everything she had into it.

He still didn’t consider it to be worth more than having Hermione smiling and happy and relaxed.

“Isn’t it enough that we killed Voldemort?” Ron asked, slightly desperate now, “Surely you’ve done your part. You don’t need to keep sacrificing your life for everyone else.”

Hemrione gritted her teeth and shoved up the sleeve of her pyjama shirt, revealing the word carved into her skin. Ron had seen it before, had spent hours kissing and touching every part of his wife until she believed that he accepted all of it, all of her. Having it thrown at him in this context hurt more than he thought it would.

“It’s as much revenge as it is a sacrifice,” she told him earnestly.

His eyes burned, and he didn’t give a single crap that he would be crying like a baby soon and was helpless to stop it.

“I won’t sacrifice you just to get revenge on the dead,” he muttered.

“Why do you think you’re going to lose me?” Hermione dropped her shirt. “Where is this coming from?”

Ron didn’t bother trying to be discreet when he rubbed at his eyes. Hermione was too smart to fall for that.

“I can’t watch you get hurt, ‘Mione. I did it once. Do you remember when we first got to Shell Cottage after Malfoy Manor?”

Hermione nodded stiffly.

“I held you all night as you cried, and it  _ broke _ me. The only way I survived is because I knew that I got you away from the danger. You were safe and away from the one who hurt you. How am I supposed to protect you from getting hurt if you won’t let me?”

Hermione didn’t immediately answer.

“I know,” Hermione said softly. “I’m sorry that I can’t be someone for you to save.”

Ron felt as if his heart had been plunged into cold water.

“When does this trial end?”

“Monday.”

Ron nodded. He made a decision.

Hermione melted into his touch when he wrapped her in a hug. He breathed in the scent of her shampoo and held on until he could scrape together the courage to pull away.

“I’m going to stay with Harry for the week.” Hermione started to protest, but he held up a hand. “I will be there if you need me, you know that. But I can’t be here. It makes me feel too helpless. You’re not the only one who brought the war into this relationship with you.”

“Ron –“ Hermione trailed off, at a loss for words.

Ron carefully tilted up her chin so he could kiss her softly. “I love you.”

Hermione’s grip was nearly painful on his hand. “I love you, too.”

So Ron packed a bag, and Hermione watched him leave through the front door, chewing at her bottom lip like it was the only thing stopping her from pinning him to the wall just to keep him from leaving.

“You left?”

Ron looked up at the unspoken second half of Harry’s words: he left,  _ again _ .

“It’s not the same,” Ron grumbled, wrapping a hand around his teacup. “Is it?”

“I don’t know, man, you tell me.” Harry leaned back in his seat.

Ron rubbed at his eyes. “She knows exactly where to find me. I’m barely a floo-call away.”

Harry’s smile was rueful. “If I was in her position, I would have followed you all the way here to give you a nice, cathartic punch in the mouth.”

“Hermione is more than capable of throwing her fists around. You don’t need to punch me on her behalf.”

“Oh, I know,” Harry said, “That knowledge is the only thing holding me back.”

Ron swallowed. “You think I made a mistake.”

It wasn’t a question. It was very clear what Harry thought. Ron understood why. Harry had been there the last time Ron left. He’d dealt with Hermione, kept her calm and collected in the cold forest. Ron still found it difficult to believe that they’d forgiven him, sometimes.

“I think that Hermione must love you more than we suspected.”

“Mate,” Ron glared at him. “Don’t push it.”

Harry nodded, and the shift in his shoulders indicated that he was back to being a supportive friend.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. I need to go to work soon. I think you should call in sick today, you look like you’re about to keel over.”

“I can’t just call in sick, Robards-“

“Robards still treats me like I’ll change my mind about the Auror department if he kisses my arse thoroughly enough, so if you don’t call it in, I’ll do it for you.”

Okay, maybe he wasn’t entirely supportive.

Harry and Ron had both gone back to Hogwarts to get their NEWTs, with the intention of joining the Auror corps when they were finished. Harry, without the threat of a homicidal maniac hanging over his head, had excelled at both Transfigurations and Potions, enough that he’d been offered an apprenticeship at the apothecary on Diagon Alley.

Ron hadn’t been as kind and accepting as he could have been when he first found out. A year later, he’d been forced to admit that it was a perfect fit for Harry, who had come out on the other side of the war with enough baggage to fit a small castle.

“Fine, I’ll take the day off.”

“Good.” Harry stood. “Ginny will be here at noon.”

Ginny, hard-headed as she was, didn’t let pregnancy limit her ambition. No longer able to play, she’d taken over as assistant coach to the Holyhead Harpies. Ron had no idea how she had so much energy. If he’d been the one growing another person inside him, he would take advantage of every opportunity he got to do as little as possible.

It clicked, then.

“You’re a dick,” Ron exclaimed. “You’re making me take the day off so I have to explain to Ginny why I’m here.”

Harry’s smirk as he left the kitchen spoke volumes.

“I’ll see you later, Ron.”

Ron sighed before heading to the floo. He’d made his bed. It was only fair that his little sister could also get an opportunity to yell at him for sleeping in it. Or rather, not sleeping in it.

Pregnancy fit Ginny like a well-tailored set of dress-robes.

She stepped out of the floo, shrunken bag over her shoulder and one hand carefully tucked around her belly. She absently dusted herself off and dumped her bag at her feet.

She only spotted Ron when she walked past the armchair he was sitting in, waiting for her.

“Ronald,” she drawled happily. “What are you doing here?”

Naturally she’d ask that question right off the bat. So much for small talk.

“You look really good, Gin.”

She took the complement with a grin. She really did have a glow about her that Ron loved to see.

“Thanks. I’m carrying around a Bludger now, can you believe it?”

“Wow, it sure grew fast. Last time you said it was barely bigger than a snitch.”

The look Ginny gave him was razor sharp. “That’s because I barely see you anymore.”

Ron winced. “Sorry, Gin. Life’s been hectic, but that’s no excuse.”

“Uh huh.” Ginny pushed past him to the kitchen. “I’m starving.”

“Since Harry made me take the day off work, you have me all to yourself,” Ron said, following her. He knew he was opening the dam of questions, but seeing his sister made him want to ask her advice.

“Good,” Ginny said, sitting down at the table. “Why don’t you tell me why Hermione kicked you out while you make me a sandwich.”

“She didn’t kick me out.”

Ginny’s expression turned stony, all playfulness gone. “You left, Ronald?”

He talked while cutting tomatoes into slices and shredding cheese, and Ginny listened intently, chewing on a packet of crackers Ron had found in the cupboard.

“I get it,” Ginny said once he stopped talking.

He placed her sandwich in front of her. “You do?”

“Of course.” She took a big bite and didn’t bother swallowing before speaking, making Ron pull a disgusted face that she ignored. “I went through the same thing before Harry and I got married.”

Ron sat down, giving Ginny his full attention.

“Tell me.”

“Didn’t you ever wonder why he had the sudden change of heart about his lifelong dream to catch bad guys?”

The look Ginny shot him made it clear what she would think of his intelligence if he failed to answer in the affirmative. Luckily, the thought had crossed his mind a couple of times.

“You convinced him?”

“Not exactly.” A piece of tomato dropped onto Ginny’s plate, and she quickly popped it into her mouth. “He was having a hard time adjusting. He barely slept. I had nightmares, too, but not like his. I didn’t like seeing him in pain.”

Ron nodded, familiar with the feeling.

“I felt guilty for being away all the time, since I was still a newbie on the team and had to go above and beyond to prove my worth. And Harry was at Hogwarts, so the most time we got was the occasional weekend.” A shadow crossed over Ginny’s face. “I’m not proud of it, but I gave him an ultimatum. I told him that I’d only let him join the Aurors if he could sleep through an entire night. If he did it anyway, I’d leave him.”

“How did that go?” Ron asked quietly.

Ginny laughed humourlessly. “How do you think? We had a massive fight.”

Ron remembered it, looking back. He hadn’t known what it was about at the time, but he recalled Harry being distracted and jumpier than usual. He and Hermione had been worried enough to confront him about it, and Harry had tucked his tail between his legs and ran. It was lucky for him that McGonagall had given the eighth years more freedom to come and go as they pleased. When he got back two days later, he’d been calmer, more settled.

“He went to see you, didn’t he?”

Ginny nodded. “He showed up at practice, looking like he’d apparated all the way to Wales. Which, apparently, he had. He refused to leave until we figured things out.”

“You still had your way.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Ginny’s lips curled, her mood already jumping back to cheerful. “We negotiated a deal that worked out for both of us.”

“And when you say negotiated…”

“I mean we had a lot of angry sex.” Ginny laughed at Ron’s affronted expression. “Why are you acting like this is news to you?” She gestured at her swollen belly. “Do you not know where babies come from?”

Ron covered his ears with his hands. “I have no interest in hearing about what my little sister and best friend get up to, thanks.”

Ginny swallowed the last bite of her sandwich. She stood to dump her plate in the sink. 

“Fine, let’s change the subject. What are you going to say to Hermione when you see her again?”

“Just give it to me straight,” Ron demanded. “Do you think I made a terrible mistake by leaving?”

Ginny leaned over the back of his chair, arms loosely looped around his shoulders in a comforting gesture that reminded him of when they were little and she’d lean over him in a desperate attempt to grab a dinner roll before her army of brothers could claim them all. He placed a hand over hers to keep her there.

“I think your situation is different from mine and Harry’s,” she said gently. “Hermione is different, and so are you. I understand how you feel, I really do, but we both know Hermione can handle herself. Giving her an ultimatum like I did Harry will only make her feel caged and get you nowhere. Also, don’t you think you’ve left her a few too many times now? All anyone really wants is for someone to stick around, even when it feels like an impossible task.”

“What do I do?” Ron asked, sounding miserable. “ _ I  _ can’t handle it.”

“Maybe you need to learn to.”

Watching Harry and Ginny together made something settle in Ron’s stomach.

After their talk, Ginny had gone upstairs for a bath and a nap. Ron had kept himself busy by flicking listlessly through one of Harry’s obscure biographies (Alberic Grunnion, inventor of the Dung Bomb) and staring absently at the wall.

It was a nice wall, especially after Harry had removed the House Elf heads and repainted it in a lighter colour. The quality of the wall had nothing to do with why Ron was inspecting it so throroughly, though.

He was having a hard time concentrating, his thoughts straying back to Hermione.

He regretted leaving. He’d known it as soon as he’d asked Ginny to confirm Harry’s opinion. He didn’t really need anyone else to point out how dumb he was being. He was acutely aware of it.

He wasn’t sure exactly what he should have done. Maybe he should have directed Hermione back to the bed, coaxed her into getting at least a few hours’ sleep. Maybe he should have asked her what she thought about  _ his _ job, which was not only as time consuming as hers, but also involved a lot of violence and danger. Maybe he should have stayed, regardless of anything else he chose to do.

No. Not maybe. He definitely should have stayed. In addition to promising to protect her from harm, his wedding vows had also promised that he would be by Hermione’s side so she’d never have to face another enemy alone.

He’d made her face this alone, because he wasn’t strong enough to watch her dust herself off after falling.

As soon as he’d come to this conclusion, it was difficult not to rush to the ministry immediately and demand to see Hermione. His rash actions wouldn’t do them any good. Hermione knew how to compartmentalise her personal feelings like nobody’s business, and he wasn’t about to distract her when she had butts to kick.

So he rummaged through the junk drawer in the kitchen until he found a quill, and scribbled a quick message on the back of a brochure for a new brand of broom polish. He sent it to the post office via Floo, then went back to waiting.

He still hadn’t received a reply when Harry got home, smelling like Pepper Up and holding a big bag of Liquorice Snaps. He nodded at Ron, then headed to the bottom of the staircase, where he yelled out Ginny’s name.

She came down, blinking sleepily, hair mussed. The Weasley jumper she’d pulled on with her pyjama pants had the wrong letter on the front.

“Are you going to tell your mother that you stretched out my sweater, or shall I?” Harry joked.

“It’s your bloody fault that none of mine fit,” Ginny retaliated, “I didn’t get myself into this condition, if I remember correctly.”

Ron made a disgusted sound from his spot on the couch, which both of them ignored in favour of scarring Ron by sharing a steamy kiss.

Ron was just about to excuse himself (Ginny’s hand shouldn’t steer that low with her brother in the room, Merlin) when she snatched the bag of sweets from Harry’s hand.

She pulled back with an excited squeal. “You got them.”

Harry’s smile was indulgent. “I had to bribe McGonagall for the name of Dumbledore’s sweetshop, but yes, I found them.”

Ginny tore open a tiny corner of the bag, and Ron watched her expertly manipulate one of the snapping sets of teeth into her mouth. She squeezed Harry’s cheek in thanks, then dropped herself into an armchair.

“What’s for dinner?” she asked.

Harry, satisfied that he’d welcomed his wife in a proper manner, hung his work robes over the hook by the front door. “What do you  _ want _ for dinner?”

Ginny started listing things, in no particular order or combination, and Harry made thoughtful noises while checking the mail.

It was very domestic. Ron didn’t quite feel like he was intruding (he knew he was always welcome at Harry’s), but he felt empty, like part of him was missing.

Luckily, Harry dropped a familiar brochure into his lap with a knowing look. Ron flipped it over. Underneath his hastily scribbled message was Hermione’s neat script, in the dark orange ink used for legal documents:  _ I’ll be there at eight. _

“Am I cooking for four?” Harry asked casually.

Ron nodded, a strange mixture of relief and anxiety coursing through him.

“Four and a half,” Ginny chipped in. Ron pretended not to notice the assuring glance she shared with her husband.

Ginny sat on the kitchen counter while Harry cooked. She’d put on some music that lingered in the background. Ron sat at the kitchen table, chopping an onion and listening to them bicker with half an ear.

“All I’m hearing is that you’re a coward,” Ginny was saying.

“I’m not a coward,” Harry replied as he stirred the sauce. “I have common sense.”

“Coward,” Ginny sing-songed, popping another sweet in her mouth with a teasing smile that Harry promptly kissed.

“Eat your liquorice. I’m not putting it in the pasta.”

“For what it’s worth, I agree with Harry,” Ron said, blinking at the sting from the onions. He really should have cast a bubble-head charm, but he’d forgotten.

“It’s worth nothing,” Ginny deadpanned. “Why are you here again?”

Ron stuck his tongue out at his sister, and she returned the gesture. Harry hummed along to the radio as a comfortable silence washed over them.

Harry asked for the onions, which Ron passed over. They sizzled as he added them to the hot pan. Ron excused himself to go wash his hands.

He heard the floo chime just as he left the bathroom. His stomach lurched, and he swerved into the living room.

Hermione was as beautiful as ever, even looking like she’d been thoroughly shoved through the ringer. Ron’s heart ached, and the burn in his eyes had nothing to do with the onions.

Hermione noticed him hovering in the doorway. She didn’t say anything, but something in her posture relaxed a tiny bit as she observed him.

“Hi.” Ron refused to shuffle his feet. He was nearly twenty-five, he had no reason to hide his discomfort with fidgeting. Besides, Hermione could see right through him, regardless of his tells.

“Hi.”

It should have been awkward. Instead, Ron found that he didn’t like being all the way on the other end of the room.

He crossed the space between them with four quick strides. Hermione barely had time to frown before his arms wove around her, lifting her off the ground with the force of his hug.

“Ronald,” she growled, and he’d never admit how much he loved when she used his full name, but he thought that she must know. She tended to know things like that. “Put me down.”

“No. I’m doing what I should have done this morning.”

“Suffocating me so I can’t go back to work on the grounds of being dead?” she teased.

He lowered her gently until her feet made contact with the floor, but he didn’t stop hugging her.

“Ron.” Her voice was softer now, more of a warning. He decided that heeding it would be the smart thing to do and gave her some space. “Are you coming home with me?”

He didn’t even have to think of the answer. “Yes.”

“Good. We can talk later.” Her hand was gentle on his cheek, and she pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “I’m starving.”

Dinner could have been worse. Ron knew that Hermione knew that both Harry and Ginny knew what was going on with them, but she did a spectacular job pretending that everything was fine.

He knew why. It was inevitable that things between them would turn out fine eventually. There was no need to spoil a good dinner with people they both loved just to drag out this temporary bump in their relationship.

Harry had made a simple tomato-based pasta that was very good and exactly the kind of comfort food Ron needed. He eyed the mountain of pasta sceptically as they sat down. Harry caught it.

“Trust me,” he said, eyes weary, “this will barely be enough.”

And sure enough, Ginny shovelled in bites of food between sentences, chewing and swallowing fast enough that Harry was watching her attentively, ready to pounce should she choke. Ron thought he saw her hand sneak into her lap occasionally, bringing a snapping candy to her lips without bothering to swallow her pasta first.

He met Harry’s gaze across the table, and it took all his power not to laugh at his friend’s utterly out-of-his-depth expression.

Hermione spoke to Ginny about the pre-natal ward at St. Mungo’s, and how Ginny was finding her new coaching job. They all avoided the topic of Hermione’s trial, which Ron thought was for the best.

It was after they’d retreated to the lounge for a cup of tea, and Ginny had fallen asleep with her head in Harry’s lap, that Ron turned to Hermione.

“We should go home.”

She nodded.

Harry went to shift Ginny off him so he could walk them out, but Ron held up a hand.

“We know where the Floo is.”

Harry smiled gratefully. “Take care.” He levelled Ron with a serious stare. “And you’re not welcome to any of my guest rooms for the next three months, unless Hermione is with you.”

“Whatever you say. Have fun keeping my sister alive, it looks like a full-time job.”

The way Harry glanced down at his wife was tooth-achingly sweet. “You have no idea, mate.”

Hermione’s hand wrapped around his as they approached the floo. She squeezed once before letting go. “I’ll see you in a second.”

They sat at the kitchen table, directly across from each other. Kitchen tables were for serious conversations, his mother always said, because it levelled the playing field.

Ron had no idea how long they sat there, just looking at each other. The silence helped ground him, made him realise exactly how much of himself he was willing to give up for this woman.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he started. Hermione looked like she was about to interrupt him, but decided against it. “It’s not about this fight, or about any other fight we might have in the future. It’s about you and me. I promised you that I would never leave you alone in that forest again, and then I left. I promised that I would protect you from being hurt, and then I hurt you. I can’t keep breaking my promises. You deserve better.”

Hermione reached across the table for his hand. He let his fingers run along her knuckles, along the ink that had always been a rather permanent feature when it came to Hermione.

“I can handle it, Ron.”

“I know you can.” Ron squeezed her hand. “You’ve always been stronger than me. Scarier, too. The Wizengamot doesn’t know what’s coming for them.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “Don’t they?”

“Oh no,” Ron shook his head. “They have no idea, or they’d have all resigned a long time ago.”

Hermione sobered up. “I’m sorry that this is so hard on you. I should have paid more mind to your feelings. I forget sometimes that I’m not the only one who survived a war.”

“If you quit this job,” Ron said slowly, “you’ll be unhappy.”

It wasn’t a question. He knew Hermione picked up on that.

“Yes.”

Ron nodded. “Then that’s enough for me.”

“What about you?” Hermione asked. “Will you be okay? Because the nature of my work isn’t going to change. I’m still going to have hard days, and I won’t always come out on top. I might even cry, sometimes, and when I do, I’d really like it if my husband would sit next to me and hold my hand.”

“How about you hold my hand instead? Since I’m being a baby about this.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t going to say it like that.”

Ron’s eyes narrowed. “But you were thinking it.”

“Maybe I was.”

Hermione managed a serious expression for all of five seconds before she burst out laughing. “Okay, I need to sleep. I have old wizards to humiliate in the morning.”

Ron watched Hermione as she slept. Her head was tilted back into the gap between their two pillows, one hand tucked beneath her ear and the other splayed over her pillow. She must have been exhausted.

Ron thought about what Ginny had said. Ultimatums had never worked on Hermione. If she got told she wasn’t allowed to do something, she’d do it faster out of spite. And Hermione knew her limit, better than anyone. She knew when she was beaten and when she could chew off a little more.

It wasn’t Ron’s place to dictate how far she was allowed to push herself. Instead, he rather liked the idea of waiting at the bottom of the cliff to catch her, should she ever miscalculate how far she could jump.

Now, all Ron had to do was deal with the fear that he would one day fail to catch her, and she’d fall harder than she should have. Luckily, he had been both a Gryffindor and a Keeper.


End file.
